


the statement of harley warren

by lady_gt



Category: Cthulhu Mythos - H. P. Lovecraft
Genre: 3 times, Angst, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Unhealthy Relationships, basically they knew each other for more than five years, oh yeah also sex, these two are so dysfunctional smh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:48:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27341479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_gt/pseuds/lady_gt
Summary: "...I was inexorably drawn to Randolph Carter. He was young and pretty and far less innocent than he'd led me to believe."(Or: Three times Harley Warren pitied Randolph Carter. And one time Carter pitied him.)
Relationships: Randolph Carter/Harley Warren
Comments: 8
Kudos: 11





	the statement of harley warren

**i.**

They first meet in the library.

It's planned, at least Harley's part of it is. A good friend of him let him know that rumor has it that Randolph Carter - _that_ Randolph Carter, the one who ducks around corners and keeps to himself and is pitifully frail and easily frightened - is nursing a crush on him, the charismatic young man who lingers around Miskatonic. Randolph's only eighteen, too old for whatever godawful childhood home he'd been kicked out of under the guise of "forging his own path in the world" (And Harley can tell that's probably the case), too young for the rest of the world.

The first thing Harley notices about Randolph is just how _pretty_ he is. He's doll-like. It isn't just his pale complexion, faintly peach like clean porcelain, or the disheveled straw-blond hair so different from the slicked-back trend so popular now, or even those big blinking dark blue eyes that wouldn't look too out of place on those antique dolls youngsters drool over. He looks frail. Like if Harley pushed him too hard he'd fall on the floor and break into pieces.

So when Randolph flushes and pulls up his book to hide his face, Harley isn't the least bit surprised.

Gentle, now, he thinks to himself. You're here to fool around with him. Not break him. "What are you reading?"

He peeks out from behind the small book clutched close to his face. "...Washington Square."

"That's the one serialized about ten years ago, right? The very one by Henry James. How are you enjoying it?"

"...It's quite interesting."

Frankly, Harley thought _Washington Square_ was a neatly-bound pile of pages filled with trite, melodramatic drivel. But he doesn't say that aloud, lest he humiliate Randolph and never have the opportunity to talk to him again. Poor thing, he thinks, so fragile and fearful.

"What's it about?"

"There's this heiress named Catherine Sloper - she's plain-looking and dull but she's got a very large fortune to inherit. And she has this suitor who's courting her, her father thinks he's going to st - oh, I don't know, I'm not very good with summaries or conversations, I'm terribly sorry." 

His face scrunches up and his blushing only intensifies. Why wouldn't that be the case? A little birdie told Harley that Randolph's got a crush on him. If all it takes are easy questions sliding out of his mouth to make Randolph grow flustered, Harley thinks, then what would he look like spread across the bed with his clothes removed and little moans leaking out-

No. Not yet. He's got to show some patience and restraint. At the same time, though, he can't help but feel sorry for Randolph. The Carters have an... infamous reputation down here at Miskatonic, especially the mother who's supposedly stringent to the point of cruelty. To be fair, Harley isn't entirely sure if they live up to their reputation and if Randolph's mother is even the sort of woman people make her out to be, but with how shy Randolph is around him he wouldn't be surprised.

"That's alright. I was just hoping you'd let me stay here and work on my studies - no talking necessary. Would that be alright with you?"

Randolph nods his head quietly. "...Yes, that would be alright."

"That's very generous of you." 

With a hum, Harley opens the pages to his book. Any thoughts of reading or studying, however, conveniently escape him. The only thoughts occupying his mind right now are those to do with Randolph Carter. Perhaps if there were fewer people in the library and Randolph warmed up to him he might have him bent over the desk, fingernails leaving thin creased marks where his fingers clamp down for balance. Or maybe his lap would work better - Randolph's quite small, after all. He'd want to leave bruises all over him, feel his wet tongue flicking over his lips and sliding into his mouth attempting clumsy kisses, listen to the delectable gasps he might let out, his fingertips pressing so deep into his hips that he leaves bruises dotted across him as a reminder of what they've done-

He forces himself to put those thoughts aside in favor of feigning diligence. If he's busy lusting after Randolph then he'll be able to tell.

Time drags on, afternoon turns to late afternoon which turns to evening. When the sun's light darkens to a more bronzy hue, Harley decides it's most likely time to head home. It's very much possible that he'll encounter Randolph again tomorrow, considering how he's often seen him on university with his nose buried in a new book. There will be other afternoons spent faux-studying with Randolph Carter.

"Well, I'd better head off home - it was quite nice having a peaceful place to study. Like I said, thank you for granting me permission to stay here." He rises from his seat, tucking his books under his arm.

"Wait!"

Randolph sets his book down, pretty face distorted by concern. When Harley stares back at him confused, he adds, "...I was wondering if I could walk home with you. It's dark and I'm not entirely sure if I'd be safe heading home by myself - I usually check out whatever book I'm reading and return home when it's still light out, you know."

"Of course, of course. I know my way well around this part of town anyways, I'll be sure to find my way home in no time once I drop you off."

The walk home is a quiet one, any gaps left by silence filled in by the clicking of horse-led carriages down the street and the flickering of lamps lining the sidewalk. Randolph will occasionally make gestures as to which street to turn onto next, but for the most part he clutches Harley's arm. Again, he's struck with a pang of sympathy. _Poor thing,_ Harley thinks to himself, _To have so many parts of the world fill you with fear. Wonder what must have happened to you to have it be this way?_ He doesn't bother to ask, though. For all the pity he feels for Randolph Carter, he knows that he's not here to heal him. 

When they reach a particularly dark and secluded corner Randolph stops. Harley thinks that they must have reached his house by now, but instead Randolph shuffles closer, squinting and trying to make out the fine details of Harley's face. He untucks his arm and loops around Harley's neck, drawing close. Then he closes the gap between them to give him a kiss.

It's damp with spit and messy, Randolph's tongue flopping around desperately trying to fit inside of Harley's mouth. But he loves the taste of that hot, wet cavern, and manages to make his way into Randolph's mouth with ease. He's shaking like a leaf, breathing heavy and fast underneath Harley. Inexperienced, fearful in spite of the fact that he was the one to kiss first. Harley kisses back, he's eager and glad that Randolph at least craves him, too.

To say this is the start of something beautiful would be a cliché. But it's certainly the start of something.

**ii.**

"I'm scared," is what Randolph whispers to him that night. He's shaking, clutching Harley close. He can feel tears wet on the cloth of his shirt, a telltale sign of the distress Randolph must be feeling. Harley, though, is confused. He feels pity for Randolph - even though the boy can and has driven him up the walls in the past - but he just doesn't know what he's supposed to do. He's never been good at that sort of thing and it's late, he's worried about losing his job. But Randolph always leeches onto him about whatever he's scared of.

Most normal people would be shocked and appalled that someone who's eighteen years old already would be a sobbing wreck like him, let alone a young man. But there is that magnetizing quality to Randolph that started thanks to those kissing sessions. So Harley shuffles awkwardly on the bed to bring him close.

"She threatened to strike me out of the will," says Randolph, "And I'm _scared_. I don't have anywhere else to go, I've got barely any money, I don't know what I'm going to do! I'm only eighteen, if I stayed with anyone else if this didn't get sorted out I'd only be a burden."

"You can stay with me."

"And be a _burden_ to you like Mother says I am? I _can't_. I'm too scared. I can't."

He doesn't mean to be serious about Randolph staying with him. He really doesn't. In fact, he hopes that's not the case. He likes having Randolph at arm's length but time and time again whenever Harley talks about how difficult his job is or how concerned he is about getting laid off Randolph shuts him down and lets his own problems come tumbling out of his mouth. And he can be viciously angry, too: He snaps at Harley, and while he's fortunately far too weak and frail to do any physical damage, thank God, he'd brandished a candlestick threateningly and threatened to hit Harley with it if he didn't hold is tongue. Ironic, really, considering Randolph ought to learn a thing or two about holding his tongue.

But he's still sorry for him. Again, his mind repeats, _Poor Randolph_. And he's not completely heartless for what he's going through. So he holds him close and lets him cry even though his patience is wearing thin.

"Randolph," he whispers. No response, only frantic tears.

"Randolph," he says again, more sharply. He's greeted by him looking up, nose tinted red and snot and tears dripping down his upper lip.

"I've no idea as to what I can do."

"Randolph, _breathe_ ," he pleads to him. "Please. For me. It'll be okay."

He listens to one snot-filled inhale.

"You can't think of your situation the way you're doing so now, you need to fix the way you're thinking about things. It'll turn out alright - law of attraction, remember?"

Randolph sniffles and tries to protest in response, but gives up, shifting onto the bed. Harley thinks he might as well leave him there to cry to himself but just as he gets up a pair of hands grab hold of his arm tightly.

"Please don't go yet. I don't want to be alone, don't want you to leave me behind for good. I'm scared. I'm scared. I'mscaredI'mscaredI'mscared-"

"You've just got to keep your chin up," Harley says to him. He can feel a warmth pulsing through Randolph's hands when he takes hold of them. "You can do this."

You. Not _we_. Because Randolph's old enough to stand on his own two feet.

He shuffles awkwardly against the bed, adjusting his grip so that he has Randolph by the shoulders. Harley rolls over so that Randolph's pressed just mere centimeters away from the headboard of the bed. Even with the half-dried tear tracks and translucent, lumpy mucus glistening on his face he's still struck by how sweet Randolph looks. It's those eyes of his - all doll-like and misty, almost innocent if Harley pretends he doesn't know what really goes on. A feeling of want surges through Harley, and he knows that if he's starting to get hard then Randolph must surely feel him too.

When his dry, parched lips touch up to the curve between Randolph's jaw and neck, any traces of uncertainty melt away.

"Harley," Randolph gasps just after the first kiss, "Harley, I want more-"

He goes back down, gulping down the flavor of an earlier hour's bitter coffee and orange rinds that still linger on Randolph's mouth. The tartness mingled with bitterness sting on his tongue, he dives back down because he just wants _more_. Forget about his job, forget about Randolph crying (he can't do anything about it, it's so _annoying_ when Randolph cries to him the way he does) just focus on the body in front of him. He just wants to be lost and push all that away, all attention should be on Randolph and exploring his body.

He gets up to start undressing him, fingers running across the protrusion of his collarbone beneath his shirt, then jerking at the necktie he wears. Harley lets all that he's been holding back tumble out of his mouth, and breathes, "God, do you have _any_ idea how long I've wanted for this, Randolph? Do you know that you're driving me absolutely _mad_? No one else would allow it, it's our little secret, I've just got you, let's forget about what's going on now."

Randolph reaches up to him, the tips of his fingers digging harsh into Harley's shoulders with enough force that only a blowtorch might be able to pry him off. "I - Harley-"

"That's right, say my name, forget about what's upsetting you-"

"You're my first."

Harley isn't surprised, but he stops. He's taken virginities before, but never with someone like Randolph. He's going to have to be careful - too gentle and that'll be no fun for him, too rough and he'll only leave Randolph broken. "I am?"

Randolph nods. "I'm... I'm a virgin. But I want you to be my first."

"Why?"

"I love you."

The words feel like broken glass slicing at his skin, all because he's not sure if he feels the same way.

It's not a romantic, sensual first time Harley gives him. He's animalistic, fingernails raking through clothing to try and undress him. It's because it's not about Randolph, it never was - his body's the centerpiece but nothing else, it's just about Harley. Randolph is convenient enough to want to be used at the same time, and he's tricking himself into thinking that whatever pleasure he might glean from it all is anywhere _close_ to love. So he leaves bite marks - stinging, lingering bite marks with his teeth digging into skin stretched taut over bone, lips sucking at the column of Randolph's neck, pulling away to reveal blotchy reds and purples - painting his skin, so that Randolph can have the pale copy of intimacy he needs.

Randolph pulls him down, fingers yanking at his clothes. He gyrates his hips against Harley's, the friction tantalizing and making Harley's cock grow hard in his pants. Randolph's only able to speak through wet, ragged breathing as Harley pulls at his hair - "Harley, pleasepleasepleaseplease _please_ I need you-"

"You need me to help you forget?" His lips close over another patch of skin on Randolph's neck to form a mark, hand slipping down to undo his pants.

"-Mm! Yes. Need to forget."

"I can do that. I _will_ do that." _Helping people forget is what I do best._

For what feels like a split second, Randolph is his to devour. It's his sweet mouth that falls upon Harley's cock, breath whistling out through his nostrils, soft tongue dragging numbly over the head. Harley gasps at the feeling, his fingers clinging to Randolph by his hair. He looks down at those blue, blue eyes. It's only a temporary relief for them both, they replace words with sex when they should be talking about their circumstances and fixing things. But they don't _want_ to fix things, they want to ignore the pain of reality if only it's for a little bit.

"Fuck," he gasps out, "Randolph, your _mouth_ -"

Randolph pulls up to gasp for air, a line of saliva mixed with pre-cum dribbling off his tongue. He's so lascivious, delicious as music in that one instant. And he knows what he's doing, it's with every tilt of his head and every time the edge of his tongue flicks around Harley's cock, how he hollows his cheeks to take him into his velvety mouth.

He lets he both of them dissolve into a mass of tangled limbs and shaking on the mattress, lubrication moist on his fingers as he slathers it over his knuckles and cuticles. When he crooks his fingers into Randolph he hears stilted breathing, likes running his free hand down the sharp, delicate lines of his body. His skin feels soft and satiny, untouched till it was prone to the rough bruising mouthfuls he'd nipped at against his neck.

"I can stop," he reminds Randolph. It's that pang of pity again, that knowledge that maybe they don't know what they're getting themselves into.

Randolph's plead of "Don't" comes out as a moan. Harley's fate is sealed, he's been tempted and is left teetering over the edge.

There's that sharp intake of breath as Harley shoves his way in, inner walls clamping down tight and slick on his cock. Randolph lets out choked breath, hooking his arms around him and clutching him close. Harley keeps at it, growls scratchy in his throat. He wants this. Needs this. As does Randolph, clinging to him and so desperate, too. He fucks Randolph on all fours, ass pressed against him and shaky, wheezy moans musical to his ears. He's so pretty, and temporarily here to be his to mark and scratch up because that's what he wants, it's _all_ that the both of them want.

"Harley, it _hurts_ , but..."

"But?"

"I want this - need this. Need you."

"Of course."

He loses himself in the soft lines of Randolph's body, gripping him close by the stomach and covering up the older hickeys painting his neck with new ones. He's slick as his cock scrapes around his insides, clutching Randolph close as he's moaning. It's again that Harley is struck with both concern and pity: Concern that if he's too rough with Randolph he might _break_ him (even though he's enjoying himself so much and Randolph seems to be enjoying this all, too, judging by how he's panting and thrusting clumsily back against him), pity that Randolph doesn't really have anyone or anything else as far as he knows.

His climax comes sharp, the snapping of a twig on a branch. Randolph twitches against him, grip on the sheets tightening when Harley cums. It's messy, dribbling hot and thick inside of Randolph. Dazed from his orgasm, Harley revels in just how _pretty_ Randolph is and how lucky he is to hold a body like that so close to his: Soft, pale skin thin and prone to bruising and scratching, large blue eyes clamping open and shut with tears, slender and delicate enough to claim his own if only for a little while. Yet he was pushing back against Harley because he wanted him, twirled his tongue around his cock in a tease. He's very contradictory, that Randolph Carter, and Harley both lusts for and pities him.

(Later that night Harley will write about the experience - "He was very different from the picture of frailness and naivety I had first projected onto him. I was inexorably drawn to Randolph Carter. He was young and pretty and far less innocent than he'd led me to believe.")

**iii.**

There are years of fighting. Years worth of fuck-ups. Always, always always the conversation circles back to Randolph, what Randolph's feeling and how he's hurting and so lonely. Though Randolph always claims it's all about Harley, what he wants and never about him. They're on entirely different wavelengths, the two of them, yet all it takes is the memory of Randolph's frail soft body underneath his to keep Harley there. 

Though he fucks Randolph hard enough to leave him sweaty and gasping, choked cries echoing throughout the house (God, the Carter mansion's such a suffocating place, and has only gotten more suffocating since Randolph's mother died - at least she didn't disown her only son) Randolph still thinks that whatever parody of love he's clinging to is real. Afterwards he will always come to Harley with those slender arms of his wrapped around him and holding him close, or leaving light kisses upon his face. He wants something that he knows he can't have, and pretends that he can experience what he wants to anyways. Harley understands it - at least part of it. Randolph is desperate, he doesn't have anyone else except for whoever lurks around in his nightmares. He thinks that there is more beneath Harley jerking him off to the point where he has to bite down on his own knuckles to muffle the moans trickling past his lips.

Harley wants more. Harley wants to be by himself. But he wants Randolph, too - at least someone he can lust over, someone he can turn to like a child turns to a favorite toy. He can't have both, though, because every time he so much as contemplates leaving Randolph starts fidgeting and sputtering about how he's so terribly afraid of being left alone. Sometimes he'll cling to Harley, too, burying his face in his shoulder and whispering about how he'd let him fuck him as much as he wants if only to get him to stay. And he does, because Harley Warren is never one to turn down a good fuck.

But he leaves in the end. He can't take it. He can't take the nights spent of Randolph clutching him close and him feeling nothing but hollow. He wants to be an individual, not someone for Randolph to turn to whenever he's turned into a sobbing wreck. 

He spends many years away. He reads through prehistoric books and scans clay tablets, like the few he could scrounge up at the Carter household. He learns languages, and that's when he stumbles across the occult: Alluring, seductive in how it's shrouded in mystery. He knows that there's far more walking the planes of this world than meets the eye now, and he thinks that Randolph might know, too. Randolph has his nightmares. He heard at one point that Randolph had befriended someone else, some painter named Robert or Richard - a lover, Harley thinks to himself, or a shoulder to cry on. Either way, he wishes Randolph the ability to be able to stand on his own two feet.

It's years later when they meet, in 1914. War is on the horizon, and they've both changed. Randolph's no longer young anymore - he's still frail, but his face has the sharpness of age to it, faint silver filaments of hair shining against light blonde. There are wrinkles creasing his face, a weariness to those eyes. He doesn't have the innocence that made Harley want to devour him all those years ago.

"God, I used to be a real looker," Randolph laughs to himself.

He's only able to maintain an illusion of stability, they both know. Years spent trying to pick up the broken pieces that his first love left behind have done that to him. Harley doesn't tell him he's still a looker - the both of them have aged, he's nearing fifty now. Half a century. By 1967 he'll be 100 years old. The thought scares him a little. But what they have now... that's far too faded than what once was. Neither of them are young and gorgeous and inexperienced anymore.

But Harley's still willing to have him. He doesn't really have much else left.

He feels sorry for Randolph as he undresses him again. Sorry for all those years the both of them spent wasting away, even if on the outside everything was alright.

He has Randolph every night, not just for sex but to tell to him of the occult - it's his turn to be in control now, and Randolph relinquishes composure. He has Randolph dragged so that he's seated between his knees, gagging and breathing heavy down his cock in his mouth. It's not the same, it's not the same because _they_ aren't the same. But this is only all that they have left. They just keep clinging on and playing pretend, chasing one another round in circles and thinking they'll reach something but only finding smoke.

"Harley," Randolph gets out and oh, it hurts because it isn't nearly the same as it was once. There isn't that little whimpering effect and clarity, it's just raspy and cracked pleading now. "Harley, please-"

He muffles Randolph with a kiss that's welcomed. It's not romantic, which Harley's alright with. There's not really any romance between them - requited, at least. He doesn't know how Randolph feels about him, but he knows he feels pity for Randolph. Always has, since he encountered that timid young eighteen-year-old at Miskatonic. But he's the one in control. He doesn't see Randolph as a person, they both know, he sees him as someone to be used that he still likes the memory of too much to discard completely. He's different now, too, because Randolph almost doesn't recognize the older man with this longterm interest in all that is the occult. This is not the Harley Warren Randolph let himself be used by.

When it's over Randolph pulls off of him, shuddering. His cock strains against the outline of the too-big shirt he wears, eyes staring longingly at Harley.

"You still love me, don't you?" he asks.

"For a long time." 

_And you'd want me to tell you that I feel the same, wouldn't you?_

_You would. But I can't. Because I don't, and I'm not one to lie._

It's not as daring now that Randolph isn't eighteen and he twenty-five, or Randolph twenty-three and he thirty. It will never be the same, and it'll never live up to the cut-outs of one another that they keep.

"I'm sorry," is all he says aloud. Because he is. He's sorry for all that Randolph's gone through, all those sleepless nights. But Randolph just gives him a soft, pained smile - by the faint light of the moon he almost looks like a young man again. He is beautiful - he can't believe why anyone would argue a thing like that.

**iv.**

"I'm sorry to have to ask you to stay on the surface, but it would be a crime to let anyone with your frail nerves go down there."

He knows the occult better than Randolph does. He knows that those phantasms in his mind are real, and he knows that Randolph might die or worse down there. Randolph nods down at him - five years since they reunited, though it's far from a joyous reunion.

"...I promise to keep you informed over the telephone of every move—you see I've enough wire here to reach to the centre of the earth and back!"

He makes his way down the stairs into the darkness, feeling the telephone wire drag out behind him. Randolph breathes faint on the other end. He thinks about what if they'd been younger, if they went to do this together when they were still reckless and had some illusion of equality as lovers (even if there was very little love truly involved). Maybe things would be different then.

His footsteps are loud against the stairs, thoughts of all he'd studied of the occult and all that goes bump in the night deafening in his own head. Randolph breaths steady and ragged on the other end of the wire.

_That's when he sees it._

He takes a step back. He knows what's coming. He knows. He can't run forever.

"God! If you could see what I am seeing!"

He needs Randolph to run. To run far, far away from this place, no matter how much he clings to Harley.

And for the first time since Harley Warren has met Randolph Carter, this is the first time he knows for certain that Randolph's feeling horrified for _him_.

**Author's Note:**

> ok so: their relationship being rushed is DEFINITELY part of the point. randolph and harley are very much physically attracted to each other, a bit more so on harleys side. theres also the matter of randolph being fuckng awful at understanding social cues, so he's also responsible for rushing the relationship/making the first move bc he doesnt have any other idea of how to handle it.
> 
> yeah its just. a huge fucking mess that sucks ASS and while they both fuck up a lot its not. entirely one or the others fault and theyre not shitty awful irredeemable people either. also the fact that the sex scene is the longest says a lot lmaoooo
> 
> but. anyways. the whole "five years since first meeting" thing is. kiiiinda true? again also a bit canon divergent gbfbgbfgbfgb bc yeah New Harley is Very Different than Old Harley. old harley fucked a lot, he really got around, new harleys just like. occult obsessed
> 
> also the fact that the sex scene is the longest says a lot lmaoooo
> 
> aight im tired so im posting this and going to get some SLEEP bye


End file.
